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Boston :   Richard  G.   Badger 

1904 


Copyright  1904  by  Martin  Schutze 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  at 
The  Gorham  Press 
Boston,  U.  S.A» 


To  E.  W.  S. 


ivir04385 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/cruxaetatisotherOOschrich 


Contents 

I.     Crux  Aetatis        .....            7 

II.     Aetas  et  Aeternitas.     Five^Sonnets 

8 

''  Through  the  Sober  Window  ' 

13 

Isolde.     Three  Sonnets      . 

14 

Monochord        .... 

17 

'*  Again  Your  Eye" 

18 

Silver-Gray 

20 

Interface  . 

22 

The  Three  Moons 

23 

1.     Faerie    . 

23 

2.     Aspiration 

24 

3.     Echoes . 

26 

Autumn  Gypsy 

27 

The  Double       . 

32 

Gloom  Folk 

33 

Winter  Sabbath 

34 

By  the  Great  Lake  ir 

I  Winter     . 

35 

Continuity 

36 

Threescore  Ten 

37 

Evening    . 

38 

The  Gale 

40 

Day-After-Day 

42 

In  October  Woods 

43 

The  Singer 

44 

Song 

45 

Vibrations 

46 

Christmas  Eve  . 

48 

Fall  Exuberance        .... 

49 

Vapors      ...... 

50 

The  Tree 

51 

The  Turn  of  the  Wheel     . 

52 

*'  I  Saw  a  Russian  Thistle  Ball " 

53 

*'  Precious  Stones  I  Found  by  the  Sea  *' 

54 

I      Crux    Aetatis 

I  had  a  vision  of  a  smouldering  plain, 

A  thousand  blackened  stacks  were  belching  wide 

A  twisting  coil  of  smoke  on  every  side 

Which  crawled  along  the  murky  sky.     The  bane 

Of  black  death  seemed  to  have  fall'n.     I  looked 

again, 
And  many  blackened  roofs  I  dimly  spied. 
Deep-sunken  in  the  smoke,  they  seemed  to  hide 
Charred  heaps  of  recent  ruins  which  remain 
Of  towns,  by  pillage,  murder,  war  laid  low. 
And  ever  through  the  smoke  a  shadow  ran : 
A  cross,  and  on  it  hung  the  form  of  Man. 
Clamors  confused  and  strident  surged  below  ; 
And  as  they  blending  rose  they  were  the  cry 
Of  murder  :   "  Crucify  Him,  crucify  !" 


II      Aetas    et    Aeternitas 


Think  you  that  cunning,  violence,  and  crime 

Can  ever  be  of  Love  and  Truth  the  seed  ? 

Think   you,  the  wells    of   hate  and  w^rath  which 

feed 
Your  being,  through  some  alchemy  of  time 
Will  turn  to  sweetness  in  your  fruit?     The  chime 
Of  Peace  will  issue  from  your  voices  keyed 
To  cries  of  war?     Can  snow  again  be  freed 
From  the  deep  scars  of  traffic  and  its  grime? 

You  point  to  the  success  and  worldly  show 
Your  iron  hand  has  wrought,  and  call  it  wise 
Because  to-morrow's  hand  can  grasp  it.      Lo, 
With  all  their  pomp,  a  thousand  morrows  pass, 
And  still  abideth  Truth,  as  bodes  the  face 
Of  night  beneath  the  scrawls  of  fire-flies. 


II      Aetas   et  Aeternitas 

2 

Does  not  the  bolt  that  smiteth  down  the  tree 
Consume  the  countless  grasses  which  are  grown 
Around  its  foot?     And  do  the  grasses  moan 
In  bitterness  of  spirit :   ''  What  are  we 
To  share  the  doom  thy  pride  has  brought  on  thee?'* 
The  remnant  servants  of  the  Great  o'erthrown 
Possess  their  ruins.     Do  the  masters  groan  : 
"  Why  profit  ye  by  our  adversity?  " 

Why  wage  ye,  brothers,  internecine  strife? 
Rule  ye  the  storm  that  tramples  down  the  grain, 
And  fells  the  tree?     Does  not  the  April  rain 
Melt  down  the  sides  of  mountains,  taking  life, 
And  giving  it?     Why  clamor  ye  and  call 
Your  brother's  guilt  what  is  the  law  of  all  ? 


II      Aetas  et  Aeternitas 


.    .   .  For  all  the  speech  of  Evil  is  but  one. 
Whether  it  leap  abrupt  from  brazen  tongue 
Of  open  violence,  or  tarry  long 
With  blandishments  of  cunning,  or  it  run 
In  the  smooth  cadence  by  long  practice  won, 
Or  meekly  drifting  w^ith  the  guilty  throng ; 
Whether  it  issue  from  one  leader  strong, 
Or  from  a  thousand  led ;  it  is  but  one. 

Its  theme  be  glory,  or  prosperity, 

The  love  of  country,  w^isdom,  or  the  love 

Of  man,  and  of  the  God  that  is  above  — 

But  from  the  threshold  of  Eternity 

A  voice  of  thunder  echoes  back  the  cry 

Of  murder:   '^  Crucify  Him,  crucify!" 


10 


II    Aetas   et   Aeternitas 


And  all  the  speech  of  Goodness  is  but  one. 
Whether  it  come  as  at  the  mist-veiled  dawn 
All  timid  to  the  water  comes  the  fawn ; 
Whether  it  triumph  as  the  Autumn  sun 
Over  the  increase  of  rich  labor  done ; 
Whether  it  speak  as  on  a  summer  morn 
The  night  in  countless  little  gleams  dew-borne 
Speaks  to  the  toiling  day ;   it  is  but  one. 

It  is  a  song  of  gladness  and  of  faith, 
Of  brotherhood,  of  steadfast  gentleness, 
And  love  that  never  chideth  but  to  bless, 
Nor  quakes  at  cunning,  tyranny,  nor  death ; 
And  from  the  throne  of  God  comes  back  the  cry 
Of  blessing:  ''  Sanctify  Him,  sanctify!" 


11 


II     Aetas   et   Aeternitas 


Night  lies  on  field  and  woodland  as  a  dream 

Of  peace  and  love,  so  solemn  and  so  still, 

When  climbs  the  grade  a  freight  train  with  the 

shrill 
Voice  of  some  monstrous  agony.     The  steam 
Is  bursting  from  a  hundred  pores.      The  scream 
Of  all  the  bitter  travail  of  the  will, 
The  belching  smoke,  the  crash  of  steel  on  steel, 
For  one  brief  space  of  turmoil  rule  supreme. 

And  like  some  spray  upflung  against  the  face 
Of  the  new-risen  moon,  without  a  trace. 
It  swiftly  vanishes.     And  closer  draw 
Again  the  presences  of  Earth,  and  Sky 
With  all  its  stars,  clothed  with  the  authority 
Of  the  supreme  unalterable  law. 


12 


Through   the   Sober  Window 

Through  the  sober  window 

The  wooded  Autumn  hillside  peers, 

Silent  in  the  silver-purple  rain-mist, 

Dim  as  golden  treasures 

That  have  slept  a  thousand  years 

In  the  deepest  depths  of  the  sea. 

And  a  moment  we  wonder 

And  breathless  gaze 

At  the  buried  golden  treasures 

That  have  slumbered  in  dim  sea-depths 

A  thousand  years, 

Strange  as  the  many-figured  curtain 

Which  folds  the  ultimate  secret  of  things. 

And  we  turn  again 

To  our  cabined  ease. 

We  ripen,  and  fall,  and  turn  to  mould 

As  the  fluttering  leaf. 

We  pass  as  the  blind  gray  clouds  overhead. 

And  within  us,  unheeded, 
A  golden  treasure  slumbers  a  thousand  years, 
Dim  as  the  deepest  depths  of  the  sea, 
Somber  with  the  secret  of  things. 


13 


Isolde 
I 

Isolde  —  is  not  this  the  voice  that  I 

Have    caught    at    through    the    vain    imprisoned 

years  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  it  as  a  dreamer  hears 
Whispers  astir  within  a  mystery 
Ambiguous  w^ith  stubborn  gloom  and  high 
Timid  desires?     Have  I  not  bent  my  ears 
To  it  through  the  rout  of  wont-begotten  fears, 
And  it  flashed  by  me  like  a  wind-sped  cry? 

What  seemed  the  enduring  confines  of  desire, 
Age  after  prudent  age  amassing  strove, 
Like  chaff  are  gone  within  a  breath  of  fire ; 
And  the  majestic  shape  of  ancient  Right, 
A  piteous  phantom  of  a  troubled  night 
Has  waned  before  the  morning  song  of  Love. 


14 


Isolde 
II 

Thy  voice  that  came  upon  the  sweeping  sea 

Of  passion-driven  sound,  as  sea-birds  dance 

Above  the  leaping  crests,  now  vaults  the  expanse 

Of  long-waved  passions  of  Humanity  — 

The  wandering  tides  of  human  destiny. 

And  all  the  jar  and  war  of  words  which  spans 

The  world,  an  iron  roof  of  dissonance. 

Melts  into  this  one  voice's  harmony. 

What  raged,  a  brutish  tumult  of  the  cries 
Of  lust,  clamor  of  greed  and  fervor,  sighs 
Of  aspiration,  and  the  blasts  of  hate, 
Sounds  but  the  broken  vowels  of  one  word. 
Falters  the  fragments  of  one  timeless  chord, 
Love  perfect  in  thy  voice  transfigurate. 


15 


Isolde 

III 

Truth  I  beheld,  a  shimmering  island,  dim 
Within  a  streaming,  hazy  veil  of  sense, 
Where  all  the  solemn  idols  of  pretense, 
The  frowning  spectres  of  historic  whim, 
Creatures  of  rote-begotten  wisdom,  grim 
Judges  of  guilt  and  makeshift  recompense, 
Are  but  cloud-phantoms  on  the  horizon  whence 
They  mutter,  gloom,  sink  'neath  the  violet  rim  — 

Where  life  is  as  the  blowing  of  the  flowers, 
A  fervent  dream  ;   a  rapture  'neath  the  wing 
Of  the  white  moth  of  passion,  quivering. 
Through  purple-eyed  desirous  twilight  hours ; 
And  then  —  a  fragrance  passing  in  the  streams 
Of       mingling       Summer-dreams,       Midsummer- 
dreams  .   .  . 


16 


Monochord 

When  Love 

Unsparing,  unreserving  Love 

Meets  face  to  face, 

Then,  and  then  only,  is  the  veil  withdraw^n 

That  shieldeth  soul  from  soul. 

That  shields  the  soul  from  God. 

For  terrible, 

Unspeakable,  devouring  is  the  soul. 

If  so  its  eye 

Be  not  the  brimming  eye  of  prostrate  love  ; 

For  quailing,  utterly  undone  the  soul 

If  so  its  eye 

Be  not  the  eye  of  unremitting  love  : 

Unsparing  is  the  countenance  of  God. 

Close-drawn  the  veil. 

We  walk  in  darkness  and  in  solitude. 

Husband  and  wife,  child,  brother,  market-fellow. 

Ah,  will  not  Love 

Cease  faintly  fingering  at  the  corners. 

And  with  delivering  resolute  hand 

Fling  wide  the  veil 

That  shroudeth  soul  from  soul. 

That  shrouds  the  soul  from  God. 


17 


Again  Your   Eye 

Again  your  eye 

So  steady,  and  so  gentle,  and  so  firm. 

Rests  on  me,  and  again 

That  even  quest. 

That  even  self-transcending  search. 

Sounds  the  deep  waters  of  my  troubled  soul. 

And  then  again  I  know 
The  weakness  and  despair  of  the  First  Man 
When  first  he  looked  into  his  Maker's  eye, 
When  first  he  faced  the  question  of  the  Truth,' 
When  first  he  quailed,  and  failed,  and  hid. 

And  I  am  exiled  then  as  you. 

And  straying  in  the  wastes  of  solitude 

As  you. 

I  call  on  all  the  powers  of  Love, 

Upon  the  deathless  ardor  of  the  Spirit, 

And  nothing  answers,  save 

The  tangled  echoes  of  my  anguished  voice. 


18 


All  the  devices  of  my  love, 

All  my  caresses,  all  the  thoughts  and  words 

Of  gentleness  that  struggle  from  my  soul, 

My  voiceless  passion,  all  the  deeds  and  dreams 

That  spring  from  out  the  tumult  of  my  striving, 

Are  but  thin  vapors  burnt  to  nought 

By  fires  transcendent ; 

Are  but  a  mockery  and  make-believe 

That  cannot  turn  the  shafts  sent  true 

Into  the  core  of  being. 

For  still  within  your  eyes 

There    bides  unflinching,  unescapable, 

That  even  quest,  that  silent,  troubled  search, 

As  broods  Eternity 

Behind  the  ceaseless,  traceless  shift  of  things. 


19 


Silver-Gray 

Slowly  drift  the  silver  hours, 
Shifts  the  silver  sky. 

By  a  season-silvered  house, 

On  a  bench,  deep  in  the  seeding  sward. 

An  old  man  and  woman  drowse. 

Round-backed  as  the  haystacks  in  their  yard, 

Silent  as  the  hills  ; 

Slow-eyed,  calm,  unindividual. 

Looking  without  wonder  on  the  meadows 

Rolling  silvery  by  the  low  gray  wall. 

Without  question  on  the  dizzy  glimmer 

Of  the  misty  sea  of  farthest  hills. 

Trees  and  bushes  float  in  silver  glimmer. 

Shreds  of  vapory  hillsides  shimmer, 

Silver  tapestry. 

Through  a  screen  of  pines. 

Shot  with  sprays  of  silver  spines. 

Silently  drift  vast  cloud  shadows 

Over  drowsy  hills  and  w^oods  andjneadows  ; 

Glistening  bulks,  pass  silently 

Browsing  cattle  down  the  shallow 

Gently  dipping  valley. 


20 


All  their  necks  low-slanting  as  the  hills, 
All  their  heads  deep-buried  in  the  grass, 
Slowly,  evenly  they  pass. 

The  sun-quickened  atmospheric  simmer, 

Insect-voiced,  o'er  all  the  grass-sweet  ground. 

Rifts  a  moment  for  the  sound 

Of  the  terse  and  measured  cattle-cropping 

—  Like  sea-mist  before  the  ripples  dropping 

Burst  on  burst,  unhurried  on  the  shore  — 

Or  some  wander-bird's  fall-tempered  measure, 

Gathering  all  the  silvery  shimmer 

In  a  few  swift-flashing  drops  of  sound  — 

And  again  the  tremulous  whirr  creeps  o'er 

The  slow-moving  hours. 

As  the  silvery  blur  creeps  over  the  sky. 

The  old  house,  the  meadows,  and  their  creatures 
Melt  with  the  vague,  unsubstantial  features 
Of  the  hills  ; 

Overgloomed  by  a  far  mountain,  brooding. 
Like  a  bovine  giant-beast  primeval 
Couching,  in  a  gap  between  the  hills. 

Slowly  drift  the  silver  hours. 
Shifts  the  silver  sky. 


21 


Interface 

Through  the  Summer  ball-room  window 
Rolls  the  ancient  tune  of  the  sea  ; 
Within,  an  old  waltz  is  playing 
That  waves  and  sways  as  the  sea. 

Like  a  phantom  tide,  the  sea-mist 
The  heated  fragrance  drowns ; 
The  swish  of  the  sea  steals  into 
The  ripples  of  frothy  gowns. 

Round  bushes,  huddled  and  anxious, 
As  they  cling  to  the  hem  of  the  night, 
And  trees,  wind-worn  and  haggard. 
Press  close  to  the  circle  of  light. 

They  seem  forever  approaching  — 
They  seem  forever  to  fly  — 
They  seem  forever  pleading  — 
They  seem  forever  to  spy  — 

Through  the  light  from  within  dew-filtered, 
Glimmers  the  starry  sky, 
Far,  and  faint,  mist-shrouded. 
As  eyes  of  memory. 


22 


The   Three   Moons.      A  Dream 

1     FAERIE 
In  the  deep,  round  lap  of  a  wood-warded  vale, 
Lay  a  moon-white  pool ;  a  flawless  pearl  it  lay- 
In    yielding   slopes    soft  with    mist-bloom    of    the 

moonlight, 
And  the  woods  were  ancient  palaces  in  the  moon- 

Children  with  glimmering  bodies  came  playing  to 

the  pool. 
Flickering   white    flames ;     and    diamond    ripples 

came 
To  play  with  them ;   as  tinkling  silver    bells    they 

came  .   .   . 


I,  too,  was  with  the  ripples ;   they  were  fondling 

and  cool 
Like  a  mother's  fingers ;   and  the  breezes  crooned 

a  fairy  tale 
As  they  stooped  low  to  me  from  the  forest's  magic 

shade. 
Or  fell  on  the  water  like  swift  swallows,  to  fade 

away 
In  sudden  elfin  laughter.     Dream-buoyed  I  lay 
Where  in  blissful  whispers  round  me  the  ripples 

played  .    .   . 


In  dead  desert  ripples  I  found  a  memory 
Wan  as  the  moon  in  the  midday  sky. 
23 


II.     ASPIRATION 

In    a    daisied    meadow   circled  by  dark    walls   of 

wood, 
In  the  strength  of  my  youth  I  stood,  and  flickering 

fire-flies 
Were  as  stings  of  passion  to  my  blood. 
Far  on  over  the  meadow  I  saw  slowly  rise 
A  figure  tall  as  a  white  lily,  and  her  face 
Was   dim   and  tremulous  as  the   moon  in   driven 

mist. 
Her  hair  as  flights  of  swallows.     A  summons  was 

her  face. 
I  was  drawn  as  birds  by  the  message  that  on  misty 

wing 
From  a  distant  April  the  breezes  bring.   .   . 
Strong  young  breezes  ran  beside  me  in  the  race, 
And  the  daisies  were    as   dancing  ripples  at  my 

feet.   .    .   . 


24 


The  daisies  were  as  upturned  faces  at  my  feet, 
With  urging,   winning  gaze  they   tempted  me  to 

bide. 
They  sank  with  rueful  murmur   under  every  pace, 
They  surged,    a   pleading   host  that  would  not  be 

denied. 
They  clung  in  sinuous  embraces  to  my  feet. 
They  grew  till  not  in  vain  my  throat  and  lips  they 

kissed, 
They  grew  till  over  my  eyes  they  were  a  billowing 

mist, 
And    the    breezes,     screaming     scourges    in    my 

face.   .   .   . 


Impenetrable  walls  of  poppies  rose  before 
My  eyes.     The  breezes  slept.     I  saw|the  face  no 
more.    .   .    . 


25 


III.     ECHOES 

I  won  the  wide  summit  of  a  wood-girt  hill. 
Behind  me  stealthy  leaves  were  falling  silently, 
Yellow  ripples  upon  Autumn's  purple  sea 
In  whose  twilight  distant  gorgeous  forests  swoon, 
Jewelled  islands  of  dream.      And  over  the  edge  of 

the  hill 
From  the  pale  purple  sea  had  welled  the  yellow 

moon  — 
Memory's  golden  heart,  it  hung  quivering  over  the 
^  hill  : 
And  the  children's  play,  the  fairy  croon, 
The  beat  of  the  pace  at  the  start  of  the  race. 
The  shimmering  pool  that  ebbed  so  soon. 
And  the  tremors  upon  a  forgotten  face  — 
Came,  vibrant    echoes,    from     heights    unattain- 
able.  .   .   . 


26 


Autumn    Gypsy 

I  found  her  wandering  over  the  hill 

One  warm  October  day ; 
Her  feet,  sun-glints  that  swift  and  still, 

O'er  waving  grasses  stray. 

A  single  wind-blown  garment  torn, 

Clung  to  her  slender  form, 
Gray,  purple-shaded,  season-worn 

By  sun,  and  thorn,  and  storm. 

Her  golden  tresses  were  shot  with  fire 

As  sun-lit  maple  trees  ; 
And  through  them,  eyes  of  deep  desire  — 

Blue  sky  through  golden  leaves. 

Her  head  was  purple-aster  crowned 

—  Pale  wreath  of  the  Autumn  dawn  — 

Her  eyes  were  shaded  with  twilight  round, 
As  the  blue  October  morn. 

We  roamed  the  jewelled  morning  through 
With  the  cloud-shadows  over  the  downs ; 

At  noon  we  lay  where  the  sky  hung  blue, 
In  thin,  gold  maple  crowns. 


27 


Close  as  noon  shadows,  leaves  were  strown, 

Golden  around  each  tree  ; 
Ripe  and  gay,  the  leaves  came  down. 

Passionate  souls  set  free. 

Her  songs  were  as  the  rustling  trees 

^ — Linked  echoes  of  things  half  said  ;  — 
Her  hands  alive  as  the  grass-sweet  breeze 
That  softly  over  us  sped  : 

This  is  the  bridal  of  the  Earth, 

These,  her  nuptial  bowers, 
These  are  the  days  of  passionate  mirth, 

These,  her  golden  showers. 

With  seeds,  and  leaves,  and  the  wander- 
ing sky, 

Her  ministers  are  we, 
We  ripen,  beget,  and  bear,  and  die, 

Yet  changeless  are  as  she. 

Of  the  magic  knowledge,  these  the  days, 
Which  youth  eternal  brings, 

When  we  see  the  vision  of  her  face 

Through  the  rifting  screen  of  things  .  .  . 


Where  a  brook  foamed  over  a  mossy  ledge, 

Was  a  rocky,  secret  pool ; 
The  trees  were  a  vaulting,  golden  hedge, 

The  water  was  clear  and  cool. 

And  naked  she  rose,  as  a  birch  so  fair. 

Poised  on  a  froth-girt  stone, 
A  golden  torrent,  her  rippling  hair 

About  her  shoulders  shone. 

Amid  the  falling  foam  she  stood. 

In  a  living  bridal  veil ; 
And  then  the  pool  with  ripples  wooed 

Her  body,  pearly  pale. 

Her  laughter,  and  speech,  and  body's  grace 
Were  gleams  that  flickering  sped 

Over  twining  roots,  o'er  the  water's  face, 
And  its  ripple-clouded  bed    .    .   . 

When  twilight  peered  from  every  dell 

With  purple-aster  eyes, 
And  the  clouds  had  all  gone  over  the  hill, 

And  the  mists  began  to  rise, 


A  bed  I  made  under  balsam  trees, 

On  a  needle-scented  floor, 
Branches  and  crackling  Autumn  leaves 

For  a  fragrant  fire  I  bore  .   .   . 

The  dome  of  Peace  rose  slowly  and  still 

Over  forest-tiers  on  tiers, 
Over  the  swinging  curve  of  the  hill, 

Above  the  starry  spheres  .   .   . 

Glimmered  her  face  in  the  dusk  of  her  hair. 
When  sleeping  she  lay  by  my  side. 

As  the  slip  of  the  midnight  moon  in  a  lair 
Lingers,  of  boughs  spread  wide. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  chill  gray  dawn. 

Empty  was  her  bed, 
Gold  was  the  hill  over  which  she  had  gone. 

With  a  last  glimpse  of  her  head. 

And  I  have  wandered  the  whole  world  through, 

Seeking  her  everywhere, 
And  ever  above  the  hill  in  the  blue 

Was  a  glimpse  of  her  golden  hair  .   .   . 


30 


I  have  made  a  cabin  of  bark  and  boughs, 
On  the  slope  of  a  terraced  hill ; 

Below,  in  the  hazy  valley,  drowse 
Towns,  contented  and  still. 

The  fire  is  lit  on  the  woodland  hearth, 

Under  balsams  by  my  door ; 
Again  to  her  bridal  comes  the  Earth 

With  all  her  golden  store. 

And  there,  just  over  the  brow  of  the  hill 

A  golden  gleam  I  see  — 
Where  the  last  light  kisses,  long  and  still, 

The  crown  of  a  maple  tree. 


31 


The   Double 

Whence  is  the  stare, 

Frozen  upon  some  iron  countenance, 

Beyond  the  vacant  stare 

Of  shallow  noonday's  cloudless  desolate  glare? 

Whence  the  smile, 

Mirage  of  lands  of  ever-blowing  flowers, 

Behind  the  potent  smile 

On  haze-bedizened  shore,  and  sea,  and  isle? 

Whence  the  voice 

That  cries  against  the  heavens'  resounding  dome, 

Above  the  jar  and  noise 

Where  men  despair,  and  clamor,  and  rejoice? 

Whence  the  hush. 

Yawning  beneath  the  featureless  abysm 

Of  shame's  and  sorrow's  hush 

That  drains  all  impulse's  animant  rush? 

What  is  this  thing. 
Forever  present,  ever  vanishing. 
Now  burning  in  the  words  a  stranger  says, 
Now  quailing  in  a  baffled  girlish  gaze. 
Now  quick  beneath  yon  boys'  wild  ways  and  plays, 
— And    now    entrenched    behind    its    own    soul's 
laboring  ? 


Gloom-Folk 

Their  eyes,  cold,  gloom-lidded, 
As  the  narrow  glance  of  twilight 
With  the  heavy  lids  of  darkness 
On  the  ashen  streak  of  horizon  — 
Sightless,  bleak,  forgetting. 
As  falling  dusk  in  November. 

Gray  flocks  of  fog,  they  pasture 
In  the  gray  mist-bloom  of  the  valleys 
Which  the  blighting  hand  of  darkness 
Has  turned  to  wasted  fallows  — 
Heartless,  blank,  forgetting, 
As  falling  dusk  in  November. 

Their  hearts,  waste  as  the  fallows ; 

The  mocking  glimmer  of  twilight 

In  blurring  mists,  their  features  ; 

Their  breasts,  fog-smothered  hollows - 
Blurred,  blank,  forgetting. 
As  falling  dusk  in  November. 


33 


Winter  Sabbath 

My  soul  has  stolen  out  upon  the  hoar 
And  glistening  day.     A  hazy  mystery, 
It  veils  the  turquoise  sky  and  answering  sea, 
And  ice-empearled  and  battlemented  shore ; 
It  lays  a  soft  concealing  mist-hand  o'er 
The  horizon's  cruel  prison  wall  where  the 
Fatuous  Vision,  mad  for  liberty, 
With  tremulous  finger  fumbles  for  a  door. 

And  all  my  world  is  a  vast  pearly  gleam. 
And  all  my  thought  an  iridescent  dream ; 
The  fairy  headlands  streaming  through  the  mist, 
The  sudden  shadows  where  the  breezes  stray, 
The  lapping  water  —  drifting,  shifting  play 
Within  my  soul  is  all  I  wis  and  list. 


34 


By  the   Great    Lake    in   Winter 

The  drowsy  hum  and  whine  of  the  speeding  train 

Is  on  the  air ;   a  broken  dizzy  stream, 

Flits  by  the  window  the  dense  fleecy  steam ; 

And  with  it,  now  concealed,  revealed  again, 

Along  the  shore  a  gray  fantastic  chain 

Of  huddling  shapes,  frost-modelled  hosts  of  dream. 

Bides,  through  the  rifts,  a  vast  gray  passive  gleam, 

And,  purple-gray,  the  sky  glooms  o'er  the  main. 

Infinite  Presence  —  there  it  seems  to  dwell 
Where  all  things  passionate,  inscrutable, 
Vast  and  still  have  left  their  featurings 
Beneath  the  scrawls  of  mocking  episodes ; 
And,  far  beyond  the  madding  whirl  of  things, 
Its  face  forever  bides,  and  broods,  and  bodes. 


35 


Continuity 


Clear  and  sparkling,  falls  the  water 

into  the  basin  rock-gray,  moss-green, 
Ever  gliding,  ever  passing, 

ever  fixed  as  the  pale-blue  sheen 
Sent  from  the  blue  heart  of  heaven 

which  unaltered,  unpassing  bides 
Through  the  ebb  and  flow  of  seasons, 

through  the  ages'  passionate  tides. 

Every  ripple,  mingling  swiftly 

with  its  hurrying  fellows,  flees 
Down  the  pebbled  gleam-flecked  channel, 

under  the  gloom  of  biding  trees. 
Fleeting,  vanishing,  never  perishing, 

changeless  in  ever  changing  state. 
Past  things  rooted,  from  secret  to  secret, 

down  the  varying  channels  of  Fate. 

In  dark-rippling  robe  a  woman 

moveless  stands  by  the  rushing  stream, 
With  a  girl-babe,  fair  and  naked, 

on  her  bosom  like  a  gleam 
Flashing  from  the  breast  of  darkness ; 

both  with  wonder  agaze  in  their  faces  — 
And  the  water  flashes,  passes, 

ever  renewing,  flashes,  passes 


36 


Threescore-Ten 

Murmured  blessings  of  falling  snow  be  on  you 
Whose  undaunted  heart,  though  it  lock  in  silence 
Many  a  wound  and  forfeited  quest  of  springtime, 
Purer  than  snow  is. 

Benedictions  of  sunlit  snow  be  on  you, 
Flooded  with  the  infinite  blue  of  heaven. 
Though  your  soul's  unclouded  abyss  of  calmness 
Shames  the  unfathomed. 

Benedictions  of  waning  snow  be  on  you, 
Leave  eternal  splendor  of  Spring  about  you 
In  whose  eyes  is  mirrored  the  never  fading 
Glory  indwelling. 


37 


Evenin 


g 


We  are  sitting  in  clover-fields  drowsy  with  bees, 

My  sweetheart  sees  lines,  and  colors,  and  glints 

That  sport  with  the  solemn,  paternal  trees, 

And  on  tiering  hills  the  sheeted  sea  tints. 

A  wilful  sky,  in  sunset  carouse 

With  frothy  clouds,  just  pushes  aside 

A  curtain,  gold-fringed,  of  his  many-domed  house 

On  the  western  hills,  for  a  last  misty-eyed 

Survey  of  the  smiling,  indulgent  slopes. 

And  my  thoughts  follow  the  wayward  trail 

Of  the  smoke  of  my  pipe,  as  it  winds  and  gropes 

Toward  the  heights  where  its  cloud-brothers  sail. 

O'er  the  dusk-bronzed  meadow  sways  and  groans 

The  last  load  of  hay,  and  the  shouts  of  its  crew 

I  hear,  and  my  sweetheart's  musing  tones, 

The  robin's  bubbling  comments,  too. 

And  the  far-off  city's  deep-voiced  moans 

As  the  day-burden  slips  from  brain  and  thew. 

Veil  after  veil,  the  night  curtains  fall, 
Blue  on  blue  ;   a  wan,  reminiscent  light 
On  watch  by  the  northern  boundary  wall, 
And  the  monotone  insect  voice  of  night 
Try  vainly  the  splendors  of  day  to  recall. 


My  sweetheart  and  I  unwilling  depart 
Through  the  crunching  stubbles,  and  silence  keep 
As  we  pass  under  trees  whose  leaves  will  start 
In  the  sudden  tremors  of  first  light  sleep. 

The  distinctions  of  hard-eyed  day  have  passed 
As  we  enter  our  door,  and  pain  and  delight 
Of  our  day-thoughts  have  melted  into  the  vast 
Harmonious  tenderness  of  night. 


39 


The   Gale 

The  bees  hang  under  the  blossoms'  lee, 

By  bonds  invisible  anchored  there  ; 
Birds  cling  to  yonder  shuddering  tree, 

All  heading  the  same  way ; 
The  swallows  wheel  and  scream  with  glee 

Mid  apple-blossoms  whirling  gay ; 
Spindrift  comes  scudding  over  the  sea 

Into  your  fluttering  hair. 

In  shattering  blasts  the  billows  hurl 

Their  weight  upon  the  staggering  quay ; 
Sheet  after  sheet,  burst,  leap,  and  whirl 

The  rainbow  flames  of  spray. 
The  shipping  in  the  seething  swirl 

Tosses  and  strains  to  break  away, 
In  roaring  rigging  sailors  furl 

Slapping  sails  hurriedly. 

The  crisp  and  hard-blue  waters  o'er, 

Like  blushes  on  an  eager  girl. 
Cloud-shadows  sail.     The  weltering,  far 

Horizon  jaggedly 
Grips  the  wild  sky.     Along  the  shore 

The  gulls  forever  untiringly 
Now  plunge,  flash  up,  now  calmly  soar 

Where  white  the  breakers  curl. 


40 


O  my  beloved,  cannot  we 

Amid  the  passionate  uproar 
On  storm-steep  paths  of  liberty- 
One  care-free  journey  fare  ? 
Can  we  not  one  sun's  course  be  free, 

Mid  urge  and  surge  of  generous  dare, 
On  racing  crests  of  life  to  be 

As  billows,  birds,  and  air? 
Can  we  not  burst  the  gates  of  fear. 

Sweep  off  the  bars  and  crumbling  store 
And  lees  of  yesterday's  wisdom  drear. 

And  miser-prudency? 
Our  thoughts  without  expedient  veer, 

The  falter  in  our  voice  no  more, 
Our  hearts  no  usurers,  the  sheer 

Storm-joy  within  the  deep  soul's  core. 


41 


Day-After-Day 


O,  drive  once  more  from  the  beaten  brain 
The  grizzled  horror  of  day-after-day  ; 

O,  clear  from  the  smothered  heart  again 
The  cumulant  dregs  of  day-after-day. 

O,  paint  once  more  the  flying  goal 

With  the  rainbow-splendors  of  April  storms ; 
O,  match  once  more  the  pursuing  soul 

With  the  racing  clouds  of  April  storms. 

O,  wake  my  pulse  with  the  old  spring  cry 
To  the  panting  pace  of  the  East-ridden  sea ; 

O,  fill  again  the  shrunken  eye 

With  the  blue-sea  vision  of  Eternity. 

O,  lift  this  monster  of  Now-and-Near, 
This  incubus  of  monotonous  wants ; 

The  changeless  face  of  the  spying  Here 
That  stares  in  silence,  stares  and  haunts. 


42 


In   October  Woods 

All  our  striving  is  a  fitful  flicker 
Sun-flecked  ground  upon, 

That  a  cloud,  a  wayward  migrant  chanceling, 
Whelms  anon. 

Our  compelling  passions,  starts  of  breezes, 
Swiftly  come  and  past  — 

Sea-song  drifted  through  a  door  sprung  open, 
Then  made  fast. 

And  their  fruits  are  sudden  gusts  of  diamond 

Dewdrops  mouldward  bound  : 

A  few  glints  in  midair,  fugient  patter 

On  the  ground. 

Shoals  of  red  leaves  floating  on  a  troubled 
Pool,  our  gorgeous  dreams  ; 
And  its  banks  are  marred  by  roving  cattle 
Of  our  schemes. 

And  our  will,  self-destined,  self-responsive, 
Linking  deed  with  deed. 
Is  a  gossamer  wind-waif,  spanning  haply 
Weed  and  weed. 

Shingly  vistas  of  our  high-roofed  cities, 
Power  and  patience-wrought : 
Drifted  leaves  on  ground,  one  season  tramples 
Into  nought. 


43 


The    Singer 

Give  me  your  flowers, 
Your  tears  and  applause ; 
Bid  the  dumb  minutes 
For  me  pause. 

What  passed  twixt  rose 
And  the  heart  of  June 
Has  linked  us  awhile 
In  magic  of  tune. 

Long  in  darkness 
I  strove  unknown, 
Back  into  darkness 
I  glide  alone. 

The  rose  on  your  bosom 
To-morrow  is  dead, 
Lost  is  the  voice  of 
The  song  that  is  sped. 

Only  to-day  I 
May  dazzle  and  reign  — 
Shower  me  with  plaudits 
And  roses  again. 


44 


Song 

My  love  and  I  in  the  meadow  lie, 
In  the  deep  grass  hidden  so  close,  so  close, 
Through  whose  shadow-sprays  the  low  sun  strays, 
And,  passing,  smiles,  for  he  knows. 

And  free  to  every  sun-warm  breeze. 
As  the  winnowed  grass,  is  my  soul,  my  soul, 
To  the  fragrant  breeze,  the  vagrant  breeze, 
Faint  with  sweet  summer-dole. 

There's  none  to  spy  but  the  glimmering  sky, 
And  his  lover's  heart  is  so  wide,  so  wide — 
Soon  in  godly  mirth  he  will  hold  the  Earth 
In  his  arms,  a  dark-tressed  bride. 

A  little  bird,  can  he  have  heard 

What  our    trembling    hearts    have    sighed,    have 

sighed. 
His  wooing  song  he  has  stilled  so  long  — 
He  knows,  he  knows,  my  bride  .   .   . 

We  know  a  place  of  crumpled  grass 
Where  we  lay  together  so  close,  so  close, 
Where  memories  stray,  as  of  new-mown  hay 
The  fragrance  —  and  no  one  knows. 


45 


Vibrations 

I  have  drunk  the  sunset  potion 
Of  that  fiery  western  bowl, 
And  the  heart-beat  of  creation 
Goes  a-humming  through  my  soul. 

I  am  dancing  with  the  grasses 
To  the  breeze's  time-sweet  tune  ; 
Tremulous  as  the  forest  with  the 
Rain-wind's  reminiscent  croon. 

With  the  homing  bees  a-droning 
To  the  calling  bluebells'  chime  ; 
Pulsing  with  the  insect-murmur 
Of  the  whirring  wheel  of  time. 

With  the  fire-flies  a-throbbing 
O'er  a  pine-walled  daisy  mead  : 
Forest  organ's  Vox  Humana, 
Giant-fluted,  million-keyed. 

I  am  quivering  with  the  ripples 
Tumbling  diamonds  on  the  shore, 
That  they  gleaned  in  careless  wonder 
From  the  heavens'  exhaustless  store. 


46 


Rolling  in  the  long  slow  sea-swells, 
Like  that  distant  blur  of  light, 
With  a  cargo  of  sea-longing 
Gliding  in  the  shoreless  night. 

In  a  willess  glad  surrender 
Like  a  perfect  violin, 
I  respond  to  every  tremor 
Of  the  magic  voice  within. 

Till  I  chime  with  each  elusive 
Faint  and  fainter  overtone 
Of  the  universal  keynote, 
Haunting,  echoing,  still  unknown. 


47 


Christmas   Eve 

After  the  wonder  of  Christmas  Eve 
**^t;When  I  was  a  little  boy, 
I_^took  to  bed  in  my  jealous  arms 
My  most  beloved  toy. 

And  visions  of  what  we  were  going  to  do 
In  the  hermit  world  of  my  den, 

Went  to  sleep  with  my  hot  unwilling  eyes, 
And  waked  with  my  dreams  again. 

I  am  no  longer  a  little  lad, 

And  toys  have  lost  their  charm ; 

Yet  every  night  now  is  Christmas  Eve, 
With  its  dearest  gift  in  my  arm. 


48 


Fall   Exuberance 

When  the  wind  through  the  brown 
Withered  crowns  hisses  sharp, 
As  the  weaving  waves  in  Winter 
With  ice-jewels  in  their  warp  .   .   . 

When  the  sun  roams  again 

Through  the  breached  Summer  screen, 
And  the  stored  lethargic  shadows 
Scatters  from  the  forest  green  .   .   . 

When  the  leaves  on  the  wind 

Are  as  birds  on  the  wing, 

And  the  silken  milkweed  bevies 
From  a  dell  go  wandering  .   .   . 

Then  my  heart  starts  anew 

On  the  road  o'er  the  hill, 

Autumn  shriven.  Autumn  driven, 
Wholly  given  to  Autumn's  will. 


49 


Vapors 


On  quivering  hills  a  tender  haze, 
Meek  afterthought  of  fiercest  blaze ; 
A  pearly  smile  on  field  and  stream, 
The  wood-birds'  answering  pensive  theme 
A  vesper  dream.   .   .   . 

Shades  of  our  strangled  hopes,  they  rise, 
Like  films  on  dream-enchanted  eyes. 
On  the  ardent  heart  a  numbing  chill, 
And  the  paeans  of  imperious  will 
Grow  faint  and  still. 


60 


The    Tree 

Each  Spring-tide  of  new  impulse  rent 
The  fibres,  lesser  passions  wove  ; 
Fluted  with  deepening  scars,  it  strove 
Till  the  long  urge  of  life  was  spent. 

When  man  the  perfect  shaft  beheld. 
Who  anguish  for  each  triumph  paid. 
Its  image  out  of  stone  he  made, 
Which  his  mute  aspirations  spelled. 


51 


The  Turn  of  the  Wheel 

A  flash  of  reckless  frenzy,  and  a  glow- 
Far  prouder  than  the  ever  forespent  joy 
Of  fruitful  thrift,  and  like  a  worn-out  toy 
A  golden  hoard  Fall  scatters  at  a  throw. 
But  while  the  world  lies  hushed  and  drear,  the  slow, 
Sure  Earth  has  fused  it  —  nought  but  brown  alloy 
To  wolfish  tempests  leaving  to  destroy  — 
Into  another  flower-crested  flow. 

In  vain  we  try  to  hoard  the  golden  dowers 

Of  love  and  thought  the  quickened  moments  gave, 

The  heart  must  lavish  in  unstinted  showers 

Its  wealth  to  swell  an  ever  new-born  wave ; 

The  greedy  mind  becomes  a  beggared  knave 

As  sullen  'hind  its  leering  spies  it  cowers. 


62 


I  Saw  a  Russian  Thistle  Ball 

I  saw  a  Russian  thistle  ball. 

It  sped  on  the  course  of  the  aimless  winds, 

In  the  garish  light  of  December  plains, 

A  nerveless,  colorless,  worthless  thing. 

Like  a  fugitive  shape  of  the  pallid  sands. 

An  insolent  vagrant,  at  every  shift. 

It  left  the  easy  prolific  germs 

Of  a  vulgar,  surly,  elbowing  brood. 

And  the  dim  cross-lights  of  memory  fall 

On  a  hillside  dewy  with  breath  of  spring, 

Where  with  tenacious  fortitude. 

Arbutus  wrests  its  thrifty  terms 

From  rocks  that  hold  warm  rays  in  bonds. 

From  nursing  moss  and  leafy  drift. 

There  its  perennial  home  it  finds. 

And  all  the  sweets  of  earth  it  gathers  in  its  veins. 


53 


Precious  Stones  I  Found 
by  the  Sea 

Precious  stones  I  found  by  the  sea, 
Aglitter  with  magic  of  sun  and  spray ; 
I  took  them  home  exultingly 
Were  paltry  pebbles,  dry  and  gray. 

The  vesper  sun  in  the  maple  trees 
Fired  the  torches  of  rioting  Fall ; 

1  bore  a  branch  with  a  few  faint  leaves, 

Dusty  and  sere,  to  my  somber  wall. 

Songs  were  urgent  in  my  breast, 

As  the  tide  of  Spring,  as  the  swell  of  the  sea 

Words  obeyed  my  burning  best, 

Bare  as  stones  from  the  sea. 


64 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

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